


Admitted

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Brothers, Counselling, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Epilepsy, Fit, Fits, Gen, Holmes Brothers, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Medication, Mycroft is a stellar big brother, Myoclonics, Myoclonus, Rehab, Rehabilitation, Seizure, Seizures, T/C, T/C Seizure, Therapy, Withdrawing, epileptic, fitting, fraternal love, myoclonic jerks, tonic clonic, tonic clonic seizure, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7595182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock agrees to Mycroft's wishes to go into Hillbrooke Clinic following his overdose. It takes little time before he hates his brother, the staff, and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What's the new guy called?” Marina asked, pushing her kitten-flick glasses up her nose. She grabbed her thick, flowing hair between both hands and wrestled the blonde locks into a tight, high ponytail. For a twenty-two year old, she was mature and focused and while currently working as a trainee, she had plans to become a specialist drugs counsellor. 

“Holmes,” Alex replied, handing Marina the file across the meeting room table. “Sherlock Holmes; admitted to hospital two weeks ago following an OD on cocaine and heroin. He's been admitted to hospital a few times for ODs, one resulted in an adverse reaction to his epilepsy medication, induced a severe seizure and he had a stroke. He was twenty at the time.” 

Marina listened as she flicked through the folder. She looked up at Alex as he sighed. “He’s epileptic?” 

“Yeah -he was diagnosed with epilepsy at eleven and I suppose the general assumption is that that has had somewhat of an impact on his addictions. He's a little eccentric, a little socially odd. He's meeting with me and Doctor Fuller this afternoon in a therapy session so I suppose questions like that will be asked.” Alex said. Alex had been working at the Hillbrooke Clinic for six years and had always been a favourite among the patients, Marina had warmed to him in her first week and the two often shared roles. 

“Nobody in their right mind would mix anticonvulsant medication with any kind of recreational drug.” Marina shook her head, dropping the file down onto the table after skimming through it. 

“He's an addict, Maz.” Alex smirked. “He isn't in his right mind.” 

Marina drew her mouth to one side and regarded Alex with a frown. “If that's your attitude to people here, Alex, perhaps it's time for a change of roles.” 

“Oh you know what I mean, Marina. How many of these well-off kids have we seen recently? Mummy and Daddy provide them with everything they want and they still fill themselves with crack. People on the poverty line, abuse victims...you know? That's a reason for being here.” Alex said. 

Marina shook her head, “I'd imagine having your brain not be under your control is a pretty good reason to turn to something to stem it.” 

“By speedballing?” Alex chuckled without amusement. “You’ll come to realise, Maz, not everyone who takes drugs has a reason you need to seek out. Some of them just like it.” He got to his feet and picked up the file. “Come on,” He urged her, “We have handover.” 

 

 

Sherlock kept himself small on the bed, hugging his arms around his legs. He’d been here since ten pm the night before and hadn’t slept for a single minute. For the past hour and a half he’d been plagued by clusters of myoclonic jerks that were making his arm feel like he’d been playing some kind of ball game for hours as it felt fatigued and achy, and loose at the shoulder. 

He hated Mycroft for putting him in here and he intended on making sure that Mycroft knew it. He hated being controlled and that was exactly what was in store for him here - his medication was held by the shift running nurse, his diazepam was kept locked in a controlled drugs cupboard, and he’d been informed that he would be supervised when using the bathroom in case he had any plans of storing or dumping his meds. Like he would! The last thing he wanted was to spend his time in the clinic out of his mind withdrawing and over the top with seizure reactions, made worse by him not taking anything to control them. 

He was given a room alone, something he assumed Mycroft had wangled as most people he had passed whilst being marched through the clinic had been in double rooms. He was thankful, though. He didn't do sharing, space and time alone were his saviours, and having to justify his seizures would drive him insane. Still, he felt abandoned and isolated despite agreeing to be here and knowing the reasons why Mycroft had insisted upon it. 

He'd been a little surprised that the inspector, Something-Lestrade, had reached out to him at the hospital. Part of him wondered if Mycroft had taken a fancy to him but he also wondered if Lestrade had felt sorry for him. He hated pity and if that was his reason, Sherlock was certain he didn't want the inspector near him. He didn't need to be pitied. Not for his addictions, not for his epilepsy, not for any reason at all. Still he did rather like the man; he was softly spoken with some degree of intelligence and Sherlock found him to be not too disagreeable. 

Sherlock looked up as there was a light knock on his door before it was opened and a tall male nurse in a white, a-line tunic stepped inside carrying a dixie cup and a beaker of water. “William, mate, I’ve got your morning medication.” 

“Sherlock.” He corrected. 

“Oh - do I have the wrong room?” The man looked behind him at the wall where a whiteboard bore Sherlock’s name. 

“No - but I don’t go by William, never have.” Sherlock said firmly, getting to his feet. 

“Well, Sherlock, I’m Rex.” The nurse smiled. 

Sherlock sighed. “Plus it’s late; I’m supposed to take them at eight am.” 

“It’s only eight thirty.” Rex said with a cheerful expression, and held the dixie cup out to Sherlock. 

“That’s not right.” Sherlock said, looking at the pill. Inside the cup was one rounded yellow pill. “That’s not my medication.” 

“Lamotrigine, two hundred milligrams.” Rex checked. 

“Yes - and that’s not it.” Sherlock held the cup out to him. “The tablets I take are blue, and shaped like a shield.” As Sherlock drew back his hand it began to twitch, his fingers flexing in and out rhythmically for no less than ten contractions before it settled. 

Rex sighed sadly at him. “It’s the same medication, Sherlock.” He insisted, “But this is prolonged release.” Rex explained. 

“You can’t just alter my medication!” Sherlock yelled at him. “Don’t you know anything? I’m not taking that - you can’t just stop what I usually take, it could make my seizures worse and they’re bad enough, thank you.” 

“It’s on your admission prescription, Sherlock.” Rex said carefully, handing the cup back to him. “You should take them - the night staff handed over that you didn’t sleep, and given the nature of your epilepsy and the changes going on at the moment, it would be desirable for you to have some form of AED on board, don’t you think?” Sherlock snatched the cup back and launched the tablet into his mouth, spilling the water as he grabbed it from Rex’s hand to knock the pill down his throat. Once he’d inspected Sherlock’s mouth, ensuring the tablet was gone, Rex bid a cheerful good morning and left Sherlock alone again. 

He flopped down onto his bed and drew his legs up, curling into a ball on his side, and felt his hatred of Mycroft grow. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry, and exhaled deeply. He wasn’t sure he could survive this.


	2. Chapter 2

When Alex met Sherlock, collecting him for his therapy session a little after ten am, he found him sleeping lightly. He had knocked the door, but received no spoken invitation to enter as he’d opened the door. He approached Sherlock and crouched beside the bed, resting his hand lightly on Sherlock’s left thigh. “Sherlock?” He said, gently, giving his thigh a shake before he drew back his hand. 

Sherlock stirred, slowly at first, then drew his head back at the intruding person in his space. He blinked and pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Who’re you?” 

“I’m Alex Winters, I’m one of the counsellors here. You have a scheduled consultation with the psychologist and I’m going to accompany you. So if you want to take a few minutes and get yourself sorted, we can walk down there together.” Alex explained, pushing himself up from his crouched position to stand straight. 

“Why do I need to see a therapist?” Sherlock asked, glaring up at Alex. 

Alex shrugged one shoulder, “It’s part of your treatment. So, whenever you’re ready…” He gestured with his hand toward the door. “Want to put something on your feet?” He asked, looking at Sherlock’s toes flexing on the floor. 

“No.” Sherlock said, standing up and matching Alex’s height. 

“Very well, come with me then.” Alex nodded and walked toward the door. 

Alex led Sherlock through the corridors to Doctor Fuller’s small office near the clinic’s foyer. He held open the door, encouraging Sherlock to step inside with a firm look, and ensured the door was tightly closed behind them once inside. The office was light and airy, without sharp overhead lights, and the large, undressed windows that surrounded it let the light from outside in. Doctor Fuller was standing at his desk, and greeted Sherlock with a surprisingly bright smile and an outstretched hand. 

“Ah, Mister Holmes.” His hand hovered, waiting for Sherlock to shake it. 

Sighing through his nose, Sherlock shook his hand in two brief jerks. “Sherlock.” He said. 

“Sherlock it is.” Doctor Fuller nodded. “Take a seat,” He gestured behind him. “If you and Alex want to sit here,” He pointed to two empty egg-shaped chairs. As they sat down, Doctor Fuller took a file from his desk and joined them, sitting in the chair opposite. They were separated by a low, oval coffee table, onto which Doctor Fuller dropped the file. “So, Sherlock, perhaps you should tell me a little bit about yourself?” 

“Doesn’t your file on me come with a low-down of who and what I am?” Sherlock asked, and drew up his left arm to rest on the side of the chair so he could cup the side of his head in his hand. 

“It gives me some details,” Doctor Fuller nodded, “But most of it is clinical. I want to know about you.” He looked across at Sherlock expectantly. Alex folded his arms across his chest and waited, hoping Sherlock would be forthcoming. 

“Well what do you want to know? That I’m a heroin addict, that I’m antisocial, that I’m a chain smoker, that I have an older brother and two parents still living?” Sherlock asked, dropping his arm down. “Or that I’m gay, that I shared needles once or twice, that I once drank myself sick, that I had a stroke, that I now talk funny because of said stroke?” 

Doctor Fuller wasn’t phased by his tone. “All valuable information.” He nodded. 

“How valuable?” Sherlock asked and tongued the inside of his left cheek. 

“Well I'm not in the business of buying your information, or life story, if that's what you're inferring.” Doctor Fuller said bluntly. His expression was firm and Sherlock found himself meeting his match. 

“No.” 

“Why don't you tell me a little bit about the night that led you to coming here?” Doctor Fuller asked. “I'd like to understand what happened.” 

Sherlock frowned. “I got high. I got picked up by Scotland Yard. I had a seizure. That's it.” 

“I don't believe that your epilepsy is the reason you're here?” Doctor Fuller raised his eyebrows. “Was there a reason you decided to use that night?” 

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded. “I wanted to get high.” 

Alex smothered a smile. 

“You were diagnosed with epilepsy at a young age; that must have been tough.” Doctor Fuller pressed. 

“I've had epilepsy for longer than I didn't have it - I'm used to it now. I don't really consider what it was like.” Sherlock said honestly. 

“I suppose having tonic-clonic seizures is daunting, especially when it can happen in public settings?” Doctor Fuller continued, bating him. 

“All of my seizures are public - there's nothing about my epilepsy that I can hide. But it isn't the reason I use. I use because I want to, because I like it.” Sherlock said firmly. “And I'm here because I have to be. I don't much like the comedowns.”

“So you do want to be clean?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I want to be in control.” 

“Well that is something that we aim to give back to you - the control over your own life.” Doctor Fuller nodded his head with a hopeful smile. “What do you hope to get from us?” 

“An early pass?” Sherlock said quietly. 

Alex sat forwards, “Is there anything in particular you hope to gain?” He asked, and watched Sherlock's expression as he waited for his reply. 

“Seizure.” Doctor Fuller said, “Absence.” They watched Sherlock blink repeatedly, gracing his tongue back and forth over his lower lip for fifteen seconds, before he gave a little sigh in his nose and frowned. 

“Is there anything you hope to gain?” Alex repeated his question without drawing attention to Sherlock's momentary dip. 

Sherlock shook his head. “No.” 

“Well if you decide that there is, you should feel free enough to tell us.” Doctor Fuller said with a nod. “We want to facilitate your wants and needs to gaining sobriety.” 

“I just want to go home, okay?” Sherlock said sharply. “I don't want to be here but I am and that's it. I want it over with as quickly as possible so I can just go home.” 

“You agreed to this placement, did you not?” Alex asked. 

“My brother can be a persuasive man.” Sherlock said and began biting the side of his left thumbnail. 

“Your brother clearly cares about you.” Doctor Fuller supposed. 

Sherlock snorted. “He cares about maintaining the Holmes name. He isn't embarrassed by my seizures in public but how dare I use anything recreational for pleasure. He, on the other hand, feeds his demons with food. Why isn't there rehab for that!?” 

Alex and the doctor regarded one another, both mentally ticking “sibling rivalry” in their minds. 

“Let's call it a day.” Doctor Fuller said with a clap of his hands. “There is a group session in ten minutes in the music room; why don't you let Alex guide you there and check that out?” 

“Riveting.” Sherlock intoned, getting to his feet. He was so close to breaking out like a convict it was unreal.


	3. Chapter 3

To Sherlock's surprise the music room actually contained musical instruments. A guitar and a piano were pushed to the side of the room, making way for circle of chairs that were slowly filling with bodies. 

“Take any seat,” Alex said, standing slightly behind Sherlock and assessing his reactions. 

“I'd rather not.” Sherlock turned to face him. “If it isn't mandatory, which I'm assuming it isn't, I'd rather go to my room.” 

“Well, no, it isn't mandatory, but it is helpful. Please - take a seat, and apply yourself. You're not obliged to share anything, but it can't hurt to sit and listen to the stories and experiences of other people who you might actually find understand you.” Alex said with raised eyebrows. 

“You're staying?” Sherlock asked, feeling that at least one person he recognised might help steady the nerves in his stomach. 

“Of course, it's my group.” Alex nodded his head. He pointed out into the sea of people, “And that's Marina, she's a trainee and she's a great woman. The rest of the faces you'll get to know as we talk. If it's your seizures you're worried about…” 

“It isn't. I've had plenty of practice absorbing the stares I get when my limbs start flailing.” Sherlock said sharply. 

“So what happens, so I know?” Alex asked. 

Sherlock sighed. “Absence seizures, kind of like a momentary lapse in concentration. Myoclonic jerks, they're usually only when I'm tired and it's just random jerking of my right arm. The big ones are rarer but they've been happening a lot recently. I guess that's the heroin.” He pushed a false marshmallow smile to his cheeks. 

Alex raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He clapped his hand onto Sherlock's shoulder, “Well then there you go; another reason to stay. Sharing and listening can help you learn ways of living without needles.” Sherlock side eyed him as he walked away, rounding up the gaggle of people and bringing a quieter hum to the room over the previously loud voices. 

The group was a ragtag band of misfits, if Sherlock ever saw one. Obvious lifelong users mixed with teens and twenty-somethings who clearly had a lot more promise. Some looked presentable, others looked homeless, but everyone shared one thing - other than their drug dependency. That worn, exhausted, almost sorry look on their faces as they eyed one another and, Sherlock assumed, saw portions of themselves in the people around them. 

“Okay, let's bring the noise down.” Alex said, sitting himself in one of the two vacant seats. Marina sat beside him. “So yesterday, Evan shared with us what it was like growing up in Glasgow with alcoholic parents and how that did help facilitate his lack of boundaries - not being given rules to live by gave him the idea that he didn't need to follow any, even as he grew up. He made some good points, about how he accepted his past and had tried to move on from it when he moved down here but that addiction had been stronger than his will to not be as his parents were. Can anyone else relate to that?” 

A few hands went up and Sherlock examined their faces. He could read them immediately - a dole-dosser, smoker with kids; an ex-con with a string of ex-wives and a teen who clearly just needed a good hiding. 

“Yeah, Amy, why don't you tell us how you related to Evan’s story?” Alex nodded at her. 

Amy shifted in her plastic chair and pushed her greasy fringe back from her eyes. The nicotine stains on her fingers were repugnant and her teeth weren't much better as she flashed them, smiling nervously. “My parents weren't any good. My dad left when I was, like, nine and I remember my mum was always drinkin’ after that. And it weren't ‘cause she was addicted or nothin’, she just liked it. And then when they took my little sister into care and mum got a new boyfriend, she didn't give a shit about me or what I did. She didn't care when he raped me, even though I told her. So I got in with these lads in the town and first it was just drinkin’, and weed. But soon it was crack and heroin. I was snortin’ so much coke at one point I thought I'd end up lookin’ like Daniella Westbrook.” 

There were a few laughs and Sherlock frowned. 

“So clearly, you can appreciate that not having boundaries set and not having someone to make rules and structure allowed you the avenue into drugs?” Alex asked. 

“I ain't makin’ excuses. I did it ‘cause I liked it. But maybe if mum had been there I could have been clean sooner, or maybe not felt like I wanted it in the first place.” Amy shrugged her shoulders. 

Alex nodded slowly. “Thanks, Amy. So - does anyone not agree? Does anyone think that it doesn't matter what your parentage or childhood, drugs can still be a choice made?” Sherlock stared back as Alex’s eyes met his. 

“Yeah - I do. I think you take drugs or drink because you want to.” A deep voice spoke up and everyone turned to see a handsome mixed-race lad hold his hand up. He was of Jamaican and English heritage and it made for a beautiful skintone and bright green eyes. “It doesn't matter whether your mum or dad or aunt wasn't there for you, you make the choice. I made the choice.” 

“That's a very responsible thing to admit, Joe.” Marina said respectfully. 

“It's the truth.” Joe said. “I had great parents and I was going to be an athlete but I chose cocaine. Me. I did that. And I loved it. But I know that it was a damaging choice to make, I see that now. And I'm learning to accept my past and move on - I won't let that past shape my future to come, just like people shouldn't let their pasts determine their choice to take drugs.” 

Two or three pairs of hands began to clap and Sherlock decided he liked Joe already. 

Alex clapped too. “That's great, Joe.” He smiled at the young man. “Does anyone have anything to add to what Joe said? Do you agree, or do you think that your past is a huge part of your future?” 

“He didn't say it wasn't.” Sherlock spoke up. “He just said he wouldn't let it affect his future. It's about choices, everything is about choices. He's right,” Sherlock gestured to Joe. “You don't have to have been dragged up by bad and neglectful parents to have a penchant for drug taking. It's all about choices. You choose to take a different road to your family or you don't; you choose to be sober or you don't; you choose everything you do. It's conscious, it's a decision, it's a _choice_. It isn't your genes or your surroundings, you could be the most impoverished family on the planet with a drug dealer for a father, that doesn't mean the kids will do it too.” He said, animated. 

Marina smiled and nodded her head. “And you chose to take drugs?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “I chose to take drugs; I chose to inject and inhale and smoke and drink. I chose that. My parents are pretty brilliant; I went to university; I'm a graduate chemist; I've got a brain! But I chose to take drugs. It has nothing to do with upbringing, it's all up here…” He tapped his right temple. 

“It's easy for you to say. You're just some posh prick who had the world handed to him. You're like the bloody Menendez brothers - perfect little life and money and still not happy. You can't speak for what it's like to grow up with drug addicted parents.” A rough, unshaven man spoke up. 

“I didn't presume I could.” Sherlock defended. “But it's true - history doesn't always repeat.” 

“Always.” The man said, pointing at him. “But it happens. I grew up with a single mother who was a whore and a meth addict. I was given coke by her when I was twelve. What other life was I expected to lead when I was so young and hooked?” 

Sherlock regarded him and shrugged. “There must have been a point when you knew it wasn't right, or you wouldn't be here.” 

“I'm forty-eight.” The man said, tapping his chest with both hands. “That's how long it took to learn that my childhood was wrong. So tell me again how childhood trauma doesn't influence your choices?” 

Alex put out his hand to the man beside him. “Some valid points, Adrian.” He said calmly. “And this is the point of these talks. It's proof that addiction doesn't discriminate.” 

“He's bloody trembling! I'm seeing it now - rich kid with a habit for the expensive.” Adrian commented, nodding to Sherlock. 

Alex looked over, watching Sherlock grimace as his right arm contracted in against his ribs in what looked like a painful contortion. “Are you alright?” Alex asked. As the myoclonic jerk subsided, Sherlock rolled his shoulder and nodded his head as a flush coloured his cheeks. “Sure?”

“I'm fine, alright?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Withdrawals suck.” Sherlock heard a girl somewhere to his right comment and he wanted to hit her. He hated them all - their pock marks, their greasy skin and hair, the clean faces of those close to the perfection of beating the addiction. He hated them all. He hated himself, too. He still craved it, didn't think he ever wouldn't, and he detested the fact that others could achieve what he never expected to.


	4. Chapter 4

The music room emptied quickly after Alex closed the session and Sherlock relished the alone time when he was left with only Marina hanging around, stacking the chairs away. He watched her a moment before he made a beeline for the piano and sat down on the graffiti-riddled stool pushed up beside it. He lifted the scratched lid and exposed the keys. He wasn't a whiz with a piano, he wasn't afraid to admit it. Where he'd branched off and learned to play the violin, Mycroft had been the piano ace and often delighted them with melodies at Christmas when he was younger. But he knew how to play, and he loved the sound. 

He began slowly, letting his long fingers dance across the ivory keys with measured precision. It took mere moments for his favourite piano melody to come to mind and begin pouring from his fingertips. It started slowly with single keys and began to build into an emotional and deep tune that made Marina stop and look up. She didn't say a word, just watched, and smiled at the sound. 

Sherlock watched his fingers as they moved, muscle memory at its finest as he recalled the placement of his digits and the tune played out without a single mistake. As he looked down, his curls fell forward into his face and his head moved into the sound and Marina was enthralled at the rawness of the scene before her, and reminded that it didn't matter who you were or where you came from, addiction was an ugly overtaking that was not biased. 

The tune slowed down again and she walked closer, her steps quiet. She watched Sherlock flick his head, tossing his head out of his face, and smiled as he blew up through his bottom lip to waft a stubborn curl from his eyes. She folded her arms across her chest and listened, carried away by the melody. Had it not been for the cough she gave in her throat, Sherlock would not have known she was so close and she regretted it immediately as he stopped playing and drew back his hands. He looked up at her and she smiled softly. 

“That was beautiful.” She commented. “What's it called?” 

“Nuvole Bianche.” Sherlock said quietly. He got to his feet. 

Marina raised her eyebrows, not wanting him to dart away. “Your own music?”

“I wish.” Sherlock scoffed. “Einaudi.” 

Marina shook her head. “I'm not familiar.”

“You're about, what, twenty? And clearly not a classical music fan. I wouldn't expect you to be.” Sherlock said quickly. 

Marina smiled. “Twenty two.” She corrected. “And actually, I rather like Beethoven.” 

“Case in point.” Sherlock muttered.

“What's with the bare feet?” She asked with a slight laugh.

Sherlock looked down and curled his toes. “Point scoring?” He said, absently, and looked back up at her.

“Why didn't you correct Adrian earlier? The guy who called you posh. When he said you were trembling, why didn't you correct him?” Marina asked candidly. “You're two weeks clean before coming here, you're not withdrawing, no delirium tremens. So why didn't you put him straight?”

“Why should I?” Sherlock challenged. 

“To stand up for your own sobriety.” Marina countered. 

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip a moment. “But I know I'm clean, what does it have to do with some drug addled, alcoholic blame-layer?”

“Bragging rights,” Marina smirked and Sherlock smiled despite himself. “How long have you had seizures like that?”

“Since I was about ten.” Sherlock answered. 

Marina made a sympathetic face and Sherlock hated it. “Must be aggravating.” She said, “being aware but not in control.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yeah.” He agreed, surprised she’d vocalised his thoughts. 

“What do you take for your epilepsy?” She asked kindly. 

“Lamotrigine.” Sherlock said. Marina nodded, her mouth opening in a silent “ah” motion and Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“You roll your eyes a lot. I thought it was absence seizures at first but you really do it a lot. It's a side effect of Lamotrigine. Nobody has ever pointed it out to you before?” Marina asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I suppose that the people I'm usually around are just used to me.”

Marina nodded. “You know, my fiancé has epilepsy - it started after a car accident he and his dad were in when he was seven. He has grand mal seizures, you know those thrashing, movie seizures? It's usually when he gets really run down. Thankfully they don't happen a lot these days, but when we first met - when I was seventeen - they were frequent. He was in hospital after he went into status. It was scary.” Marina said honestly and Sherlock eyed her with suspicion. 

“Is this you trying to find common ground?” He asked. 

“Yes and no.” She admitted. “I just wanted you to know that someone here understands, at least as a close party if not a sufferer.” 

“I'm not suffering.” He said bluntly. “And if I wanted an epilepsy ally, I'd call my brother. He's good at that.”

“I'm not trying to make you…” Marina said and stopped. “I just don't understand why you didn't stand up to Adrian?” Marina challenged. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would step back from anyone who made a comment about you that wasn’t true.”

“Because it isn't any of his business!” Sherlock raised his voice. “And it's none of yours, either. You’ve seen me for all of half an hour, you have no idea what type of person I am.” He glared at her and stalked away, letting the heavy double doors slam as he passed through them. 

Marina sighed in Sherlock's wake and dropped her head back, staring above her. “Bollocks.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock bypassed lunch, and dinner, and kept himself hidden away in his room. Despite his overall view of this place being much like a prison, he was thankful of the CD player that was on the small desk along the wall beside the door. He scanned through the radio settings and kept the classical station on at a low hum. He wondered if Mycroft had told Victor where he was, and what he’d said if he had. He wondered if Victor would even care - they had fought pretty viciously when Victor had decided to accept the offer of a voluntary tour. It had been a public row, too, in the centre of a restaurant on an evening that was supposed to be in celebration of his father’s birthday. Everything had gone wrong that night - his mother knew he was high, Mycroft knew he was high, and he saw real disappointment is his father’s eyes. 

He flopped down onto the bed and lay on his back, staring above him at the ceiling. His anger was insurmountable and all encompassing, and largely focused on himself. He hated his lack of control, his lack of _self_ control. He hadn’t been in total control since he was a child but giving in and letting everything else take over had been his failing point. He hated himself for it - he could have been so much more than he allowed himself to be. He had so much potential, Mycroft constantly told him so, and yet he continued to piss it away because he didn’t want to submit to being controlled again. By medication, by appointments, by neurology visits, by seizures he barely even knew he was experiencing to seizures he couldn’t miss. He never considered himself a victim before - but he was quickly giving himself up to that way of life now and he hated that he had reached that point. 

He sat up sharply as the door was knocked twice and then began to open slowly. It occurred to Sherlock he hadn’t offered an invitation in, but it quickly sank into his mind that he didn’t have the right to either. 

“Sherlock, hi.” Alex greeted him. 

Sherlock drew his legs up onto the bed and crossed them beneath him. “What?”

“I wondered if you and I could talk?” Alex asked, helping himself to the chair pushed in under the small desk. He set it at the foot of Sherlock’s bed and sat down. “Marina said she was a little worried she’d upset you after the group session this morning. I wanted to see if you were alright, and also maybe touch on some of the things you and she had discussed to see why she drew such a reaction out of you.” 

“I’m not upset.” Sherlock shook his head. 

Alex nodded, “Okay, so you’re not upset.” He said, crossing one leg over the other. “Well Marina was a little worried she’d, you know, caused you some anger, some...anguish. I can go back and tell her that you’re okay?” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “You can tell her what you like.” 

“I’ve got to admit, though.” Alex began, “I agree with what she said she had said to you. You really don’t seem the type of person who takes shit from anyone.” 

“And like I told her,” Sherlock sat up straighter, “You don’t know the type of person I am.” 

Alex eyed him carefully, watching the changing expressions on his face, and simply nodded. “No, you’re right. We don’t. But you’re not exactly being forthcoming, either, are you? Maybe if you let your guard down a little bit, quit with the attitude you seem to have, you might find people are actually interested to know you.” 

“Interested in what? The posh prick who had enough money for the expensive stuff. I can see why people would be interested - the crack heads in here want a loan.” He narrowed his eyes sarcastically. 

“Perhaps they’d be interested in your time in university, or your interests, I don’t know, but if you gave people a chance to get to know you instead of pushing them away by being a dick, it might work out for you.” Alex said, stern but without anger, and stared at Sherlock with a blank expression on his face. 

Sherlock dug his tongue into his cheek and nodded his head. “Hasn’t worked out before now.” He said, and unfolded his legs. He pushed himself up, standing up beside the bed. “You can leave now.” 

“Doctor Fuller has reevaluated your medication with the nurse, Rex. They’ve decided the change was not warranted and you’ll be returned to what your usual medication regime was.” Alex said as he got up, leaving the chair beside the bed. “From the morning, you’ll have your normal dosage, which means you’ll be receiving doses throughout the day - you can do that in the nursing station or you can take your medication in the group sessions. Perhaps that’ll work for you.” Alex goaded, “Give you a reason to be a prick a little more.” 

“Get out.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“If you’re not going to try helping yourself here, Sherlock, it isn’t going to help you at all. So drop the act, lose the attitude, and apply yourself. Or that early pass you want is going to be a long time coming.” Alex said with a nod of his head. He turned away and left without a further word, leaving Sherlock alone to stew in his anger. 

As Alex closed the door behind him, Sherlock flopped down onto his bed again with an angry growl in his throat. All he could think of was going home, getting out of here for good, and finding out where Victor was so he could beg him to come home. He felt sick, angry and exhausted, and totally alienated. Usually, this would be the point he’d reach for his phone and call his brother. If that didn’t work, he’d reach for the closest substance. He lay back and stared up at the ceiling again, breathing slowly to try anything he could to settle his fast-beating heart. He wanted to hurt someone, to break something, to scream - anything to get out the anger in his head that was usually only quietened by heroin. 

He closed his eyes and gripped his hair in both hands, pulling the curls between his fingers as an external sensation for the uncontrolled thoughts and feelings in his mind and hoped it would help. He just wanted some peace and quiet - some control over how his mind operated. Just once. 

He groaned to himself as he felt the all-too-familiar sensation of tingling beginning in his right arm. He dropped both hands down, lying flat and straight on his bed, and waited for the jerks to take hold. It didn’t take long. In mere moments, his right arm was contorting in against him, jerking and shaking and tugging down against his shoulder awkwardly. He gritted his teeth as it went on a little longer than he’d have liked, making his fingertips tingle and his shoulder ache when it finally released. He was given barely five minutes grace before it began again, this time concentrating mostly in his hand, bending his fingers painfully and jerking his wrist inward to the point it felt like his thumb would touch his tendons. He cringe, gritting his teeth tightly again, and sunk his teeth into his bottom lip when it finally eased and he was able to flex his fingers again. 

When it started again in another few moments, he began to fear he was in for a tougher time, he managed to push himself up awkwardly with his left hand. He sat on the side of his bed, thrusting downward on his right side as his entire shoulder jerked down, and reached across with his left hand to hit the emergency call bell that was fixed to the wall beside his bed. He knew what continued myoclonics meant - he’d been through it enough in the past. But it scared him to think he’d have to give in and ‘do it’ in front of people he didn’t know, in front of so many strangers, particularly when it was killing him to be here as it was. 

After a minute or two, the call bell was answered and Marina came into the room with Rex behind her. It was standard procedure to attend the call bell in pairs - just in case. Sherlock could read her face, even with his own discomfort filling his mind, and she stared at her with intense eyes. 

“Myoclonic status?” Rex asked, moving quickly to Sherlock’s side and knocking the buzzer off as he crouched before Sherlock’s legs. 

Sherlock shook his head, “No but auras.” he said weakly. “I can feel it in my stomach…” 

“You think you’re going to have a grand mal?” Rex asked, eyeing him. 

Sherlock nodded. “I can feel it.” He said sharply. “I don’t want to…” He groaned, sounding emotional. 

Rex reached into the pocket of his tunic and threw them to Marina. “There’s a premixed bolus of diazepam PR in Sherlock’s medication tray in the meds room - second trolley, in the right-hand door. Grab it? We’ll see if we can stop it before it starts. Grab the PRN tongue melts, too?” He called out as Marina left, jogging from the room. “It’s okay, mate, if it’s going to happen it’s going to happen.” 

“I don’t want to!” Sherlock shouted, jerking back slightly as his arm contorted in again. 

“Lie back.” Rex insisted, kneeling up so he was face to face with Sherlock and placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “If it hits you hard I don’t want you to fall. Lie back.” 

Sherlock shook his head, sighing as his right side released and he was able to flex his arm comfortably. “I don’t want...to lie...down.” Sherlock bit lightly on his tongue, feeling like it was swelling in his mouth and making speech difficult. He shook his head. “No...no…” he swallowed, feeling anxious. “I don’t want...I don’t want…” 

Rex stood up and bent at the waist. He forced Sherlock back with a light shove and then hooked his arm under Sherlock’s knees and swinging his legs up onto the bed so that he was lying flat on his back. Using the quilt cover, he pulled Sherlock almost to the edge of the bed, then slowly eased Sherlock over onto his left side into a crude recovery position. No sooner had Rex adjusted Sherlock’s legs, lying him securely, did Sherlock’s limbs tighten. Every muscle in his lithe body began to lock and he gave a deep, throaty gargle as the air was forced from his lungs. Rex took a deep breath and kept his hand lightly on Sherlock’s right hip, able to feel the tremble of his muscle as it pulled taut beneath his fingers. “Alright, Sherlock, here we go. It’s alright.” 

Sherlock wanted to shout and scream but found the world turning abysmally black.


	6. Chapter 6

Marina returned, diazepam in hand, as the clonic phase of Sherlock’s seizure began. She watched his limbs jerk in an oddly coordinated rhythm of contractions, his arms rocking back and forwards as his shoulders jerked and his throat made a distinct but concerning clucking sound as saliva dripped down his cheek and into his pillow. Rex remained at Sherlock’s side, his hand resting lightly on his tense thigh, and looked up to Marina as she stepped inside. 

“He’s alright.” He said in a gentle voice. “He’s unconscious, he doesn’t feel a thing.” 

“I know.” Marina said, swallowed over the lump in her throat. “Here-,” She held out the cardboard box to Rex. 

“Keep hold of it; we’ll time the seizure. If it goes over five minutes, I’ll need you to make sure the cap is off while I work down his trousers.” Rex explained. “It’s only been just over a minute so far - let’s see if it’ll stop itself.” 

“He’s been in status before, though.” Marina explained, “I read his file - he’s been in the hospital a few times. He’s got vascular damaged from a stroke, too.” 

Rex nodded his head. “I know - I worked that out earlier when I saw that he’s on simvastatin at night, as well as his AEDs.”

“So maybe stopping the fit now is a good idea?” Marina said, clearly panicked. 

“Maz, calm down. I need you to focus with me. If you can’t, then you need to find somebody out there who can come in here and help me with him.” Rex said firmly. He glanced at his watch “That’s two and a half minutes.” 

“Please, just stop the fit now. Give him a break!” Marina pleaded. “I can’t watch him like this. Think of the further damage he’s doing.” 

“He isn’t doing damage; he’s had seizures since he was young. This happens to him a lot and he deals with it, so you need to deal with it. Marina, c’mon, I need your cooperation here.” Rex remained firm in his tone but understanding, able to see her distress. “Maz, if you can’t help then it’s fine - but say so now before it turns into me needing your help?” 

“I can’t help.” She said, bluntly. 

Rex looked at her, a little surprised to hear her admit it. “Okay, get Alex or Joseph for me? Marina, now…” He sharpened his tone as she wavered. She left the diazepam with him and made her way out of the room. “Alright, Sherlock. You’re doing great, mate.” He listened to the intensifying changes to Sherlock’s breathing, hating the struggling sounds as his throat constricted and forced more building saliva out with each deep exhale. “Three and a half…” he whispered to himself, checking his watch again. “Come on, Sherlock.” he pleaded, quietly. 

“Rex?” Alex came through the door on quick feet. “How long?” 

“Just over three minutes but he was having jerks before. Marina brought the rectal diazepam in but I think she got a bit spooked actually seeing him seizing. Thanks for coming in.” He smiled across at his colleague. 

“What’s his agreed time limit for intervention?” Alex asked, peering over at Sherlock’s face, feeling the hair on his arms stand up as he took in Sherlock’s grey palour. 

“Five, although I know when there was conversations with his brother that it was stated his generalised seizures like this had lasted a little longer before and then stopped naturally.” Rex said, confidently, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. “But given the changes of being here, the fact that the nightstaff said he didn’t sleep last night, and that alteration to his dosage this morning, I wouldn’t want to leave it any longer than the five.” 

“He’s had PR diazepam before?” Alex asked, flicking his eyes between his colleague and Sherlock. 

Rex glanced up at his momentarily. “I don’t know - but I’d assume so. You don’t go this many years with epilepsy without having some kind of intervention, surely?” 

Alex held out his hands at his sides, “Not sure, I’m not really an expert. Only ever seen withdrawal seizures, not really been around anyone with epilepsy.” He admitted. “You still timing?” 

“Coming up for four minutes.” Rex nodded. 

“Can we push the diazepam now? I don’t want anything risked.” Alex asked, concern etched on his face. 

“Give him time.” Rex shook his head. “The best thing is to let his seizures take their natural course. We only intervene if we have to.” 

“Rex if we do anything then we need to call his family and inform emergency services. I’d rather act quickly than risk him being in trouble. Dude, please, let’s get the diazepam on board?” Alex pleaded. 

Looking up, Rex conceded with a nod. “Fine, take that-,” he nodded to the box Marina had left on the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “The green cap should already be set to ready. Just flick to clear cap off of the nozzle and lubricate it. I’ll get his trousers down.” 

Alex followed Rex’s instructions to the letter, flicking the dome-shaped cap from the thin nozzle with his thumb and forefinger. He tore open the small sachet that was tossed into the box alongside the syringe and carefully coated the entire syringe tip in lubricant. Holding the syringe, ready and waiting, in his hand, he watched Rex battling Sherlock’s trousers down whilst trying not to interfere with the movements of his limbs as the seizure continued. He winced at the loss of dignity for Sherlock as Rex finally worked his trousers and underwear down. 

“Okay, give it here…” Rex held out his hand for the syringe. 

Alex watched with a cringe as Rex’s right hand carefully separated Sherlock’s buttocks whilst the other guided the syringe into his rectum. He listened to Rex’s measured count of “one...two...three…” as he pushed the plunger down before repeating the same count before carefully pulling the syringe away and pushing Sherlock’s buttocks together again.

“Call 999, get paramedics here. He’ll have to be admitted now that he’s been given the diazepam. Ask someone in the main office to contact his family, too?” Rex instructed, handing Alex the used syringe. 

Alex fixed the cap back onto the syringe and placed it back into the box, knowing it’d have to be correctly discarded with medical waste. He jogged from the room, aiming to make the calls as quickly as possible, leaving Rex alone with Sherlock again. 

“Come on, Sherlock…” Rex said softly, his hand on Sherlock’s hip. He reached for a t-shirt of Sherlock’s at the end of his bed and draped it over Sherlock’s hips, protecting his dignity as much as he could, and noticed how wet the front of Sherlock’s trousers had become as his bladder control had been lost. He wasn’t sure how long it should take, but he was growing concerned as Sherlock’s contracting limbs seemed to be growing tighter rather than beginning to ease. “...come on, mate, ease up…” 

Slowly, he began to notice the tensing begin to ease. Sherlock’s arms began to relax and while his body seemed to jump occasionally, the worst of the clonic phase seemed to be passing. Rex timed Sherlock’s breathing, hoping for a quick return to something normal, and grimaced at the continued watery grunts that emanated as his body slowly stopped twitching. 

“There we go…” He said gently, pushing Sherlock’s sweaty hair away from his damp forehead. “All over, mate. You’re okay.” 

Rex looked up as the door opened again and Alex returned, looking flustered. “Marina’s calling his brother and the paramedics are on their way. Jesus Christ, that was fucking awful.” He sighed, shaking his head. 

Rex straightened his body and stretched his muscles, aching slightly from spending so long crouched with Sherlock. “Yeah, they’re not exactly the easiest of things to witness.” 

“He’s alright now?” Alex nodded to Sherlock. 

Rex shrugged his shoulders, “We’ll see once he becomes fully conscious. But he should be fine. As long as he’s gone purposeful movements when the paramedics are here, I’m sure they will probably not even take him in. But we’ll see what happens.”

“His family must go insane with worry - I couldn’t cope with watching that all the time.” Alex exhaled, shaking his head. “No wonder the kid wants to get high.” 

Rex frowned at him, “Hardly a pass to shoot up, though, is it?” He looked back at Sherlock, hearing sob-like groans from him. “It’s alright, Sherlock.” He leaned over him. “You had a seizure. The paramedics are coming in, and we’ve called your brother. Can you hear me?” 

Sherlock gave another sorrowful groan and a frown bunched his forehead. 

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” Rex called clearly. He watched Sherlock attempt to push out his hands and then drop them lethargically. “You’re okay, Sherlock. Just lie nice and still. You’re going to be just fine.” He pressed his hand comfortingly on Sherlock’s hip, grimacing at the wetness beneath his fingers that had soaked through the t-shirt draped there. “He’s soaked.” 

“He wet himself?” Alex’s brows crooked. 

“One of the many embarrassing side-effects of grand mal seizures.” Rex nodded. 

“Poor fucker.” Alex shook his head, pity dripping from his tone. “Sincerely, I think I’d end my life if I was stuck in this kind of cycle.” 

“That’s not exactly helpful, Alex.” Rex looked up at him with a firm stare. “Could you go out and meet paramedics?” He asked, dismissing him. As Alex reluctantly walked away, Rex pressed his hand down on Sherlock’s hip again. “Hiya, mate, you doing okay?” he asked, watching Sherlock’s eyes blink open and closed lethargically. “You’ll be alright soon.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Mycroft Holmes? Hello, I'm Rex Talford. I met you when Sherlock was admitted with us. I'm the staff nurse on days here.” Rex held out his hand to Mycroft respectfully in the reception hall. 

Mycroft shook Rex’s hand. “Yes, I remember. Thank you for calling me. Is Sherlock alright?”

“Much better - he's been very sleepy postictally, but he has been awake for around half an hour now and has been communicating clearly with myself and one of the counsellors. He has a headache, which we've administered paracetamol for, but he is otherwise well.” Rex explained, walking with Mycroft through the hall and into the main corridor of the clinic to take him to Sherlock's room. “He was assisted with a shower when he felt steady enough and is having a drink and a snack at the moment as we got a little concerned his blood sugar might be too low.” 

“It happens after prolonged seizures. And sometimes the diazepam has been known to lower his blood glucose levels.” Mycroft agreed with Rex’s concern. 

Rex stopped outside of Sherlock's room. “I'll leave you two to it - just ask Alex to step out, he's in there with Sherlock at the minute.” 

Mycroft nodded politely and reached for the door handle, letting himself into Sherlock's room. As he stepped in, Sherlock looked up at him and Alex, he presumed, sitting beside him, turned to look over his shoulder to see who was entering. Mycroft was a little shocked to see the complete exhaustion on Sherlock's face - dark bags under his eyes, pale complexion and slight quiver to his hand as he brought the tumbler of milk he was drinking away from his mouth. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sounded slightly surprised to see his brother. 

“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked, quick to gain an honest answer. 

Sherlock nodded his head. “I'm fine.” 

“You're exhausted.” Mycroft stated. Alex stood and pointed wordlessly to the door before slipping out of the room. “A day here and you're...a mess.” 

“I'm fine.” Sherlock repeated, a little more deliberately. Mycroft noted how pronounced his usually slight lisp sounded, his tongue smudging against his palate as he forced out the “n” in fine. “And you wanted me to be here. You can't change your mind just because I had a big one.” His tongue continued to graze against the top of his mouth, turning the crispness of the word “change” into something milky and immature, with a double, needless hiss. 

“I can.” Mycroft said bluntly. “I won't, though. You need to be here. They need a lesson in epilepsy and postictal care.” He stepped closer to Sherlock's bed, where Sherlock was perched. 

“Mycroft, stop it. I'm fine.” Sherlock said more forcefully. “But seeing as you're here you can take me home.” 

“It's early evening in your first full twenty four hours, you're exhausted, your medication has been altered, you had a tonic-clonic seizure and you look half dead. You are not fine, Sherlock, you are frail: there should be a point when you begin to accept that challenges arise and learn to assess whether you behave close to normal or not.” Mycroft said with a fixed stare and a forced tone. “That being said - no, I'm not taking you home.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You’re a monster.” 

“And you, dear brother, are a drug addict. Fix it. Then you’re free to leave. And in the meantime, try not to have a life-ending seizure.” Mycroft stared at Sherlock as the younger Holmes narrowed his eyes at him with pure venom. “I’ll stay, until you’ve had your medication and you’re ready to sleep.”

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest. “You might as well just leave now.” 

“Believe it or not, Sherlock, I am concerned.” Mycroft invited himself to sit on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “That nurse seems to know what he’s doing, so at least you’re in good hands when he is around.” Sherlock closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall behind him, and let his arms fall to his sides again. 

“If I just promise not to shoot up again, will you let me out of here?” 

Mycroft shook his head slowly. “Your promises are less than binding, Sherlock. I do, however, have an offer for you on your completion of the duration of this stint.” 

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow. “Which means what?” 

“Behave yourself, and I’ll give you some real-life detective stories to work through.” Mycroft smiled. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” 

“Listen to yourself - you can’t talk properly and your eyes are rolling in your head in exhaustion. You’re postictal and you’re craving.” Mycroft stopped himself from going any further. “I spoke with Victor.” Sherlock fixed Mycroft with a firm stare. “He’s safe and well. He expressed his concerns and sent well-wishes. He even said he was proud of your dedication in coming here.” 

“You hate him.” Sherlock pointed at Mycroft. 

“But he loves you.” Mycroft said quietly. 

Sherlock sighed. “Sometimes.” 

“You test his patience, Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head. “You test _everyone’s_ patience.” 

Sherlock smiled as he saw his brother’s eyes narrow a little, dimming somewhat as he drifted into thought briefly. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.” 

“I do.” Mycroft nodded sincerely. “God help me.”


End file.
